By the time Róisín awoke the next morning, the first thing she felt was regret.
Then heat. Then her tongue, dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth like parchment. Her skull throbbed like it was being used for target practice by the Einherjar.
She groaned and rolled over — straight into empty fur.
The warmth beside her was gone, save for the lingering scent of sweat and pine.
Firelight flickered low. The hearth was dying.
She sat up slowly, head pounding.
Mead, she realized. Not wine.
God's blood, she winced. Norse drink hits different.
She jolted upright, immediately regretted it, and clutched her forehead as the room spun.
The memories came in pieces: the horn, the hallway, that voice, that stupid line about biting, and her stupid blush—
I didn't even change into the shift…
